


What a curse it is.

by pipelliot



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Implied Relationships, M/M, Post Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 10:16:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipelliot/pseuds/pipelliot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Queen Guinevere rules over Albion with her Court Sorcerer at her side. This is them spending time together and gossiping about Prat Pendragons. With wine. Post series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What a curse it is.

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted some Gwen and Merlin time. And to lament over my OT4. And to just write Gwen because she is my queen and everyone's queen and I love her and I miss her. Read this relationship (and every other relationship, to be honest) however you like. Unbeta'd and messy, apologies.

“Enough.”

Gwen leaned back in her chair, managing not to wince at the colossal creak in her neck. She drops her quill and smooths down her velvet sleeves, needing not to peak over at Merlin to know that he is still about to fall into his books and frollock about with his potions and dragons.

“Enough,” she repeats more deliberately, although it takes Gwen’s request for enough wine to suit the two of them times four for him to lift his head and blink at her dazedly.

Recently, Gwen’s fingers are rather twitching for a sword but she supposes a pitcher of wine should have to do for now.

Merlin drops his head to cradle them in his arms as Gwen stands. She lifts an elbow invitingly. “My lord, will you join me?”

Merlin stands, looping his arm through hers but still looking all confused as he does it. “But where are we going? There is wine coming,“ he pouts and Gwen thinks him no less adorable than the day they met.

They stop at the very comfortable and Queen-worthy rug directly in front of the fireplace. “Ah,” Merlin says smiling, and Gwen counts it as a win. “It would seem I have escorted you to the fireplace, my lady.” 

“Indeed.” Gwen smooths down her skirts and sits right down. The heat is heavenly. Might not be particularly good for the fabrics of her dress, but she hardly has it in her to care overmuch.

“Your highness, I don’t suppose it is becoming of a Queen to sit on the ground.”

“I am not sitting on the ground, I am sitting on the rug,” she tells Merlin’s cocked brow. “And regardless, what is becoming of a Queen is whatever I wish and decide it be.”

“Of course, I apologise.” He smiles, fond, sitting down right next to her. He leans back on the heels of his palms and sprawls out immediately, sighing with the heat, the lights of the fire dancing all over his sharp and far too weary features.

Wine comes (and comes and comes) and old friends chat as old friends do. They lie now, side by immediate side, which is most definitely not the most advisable position to be drinking in. Gwen suspects her curls might be a little damp. Merlin giggles, but Gwen also suspects that the rather depressing midnight blue neckerchief Merlin chooses to adorn of late was much lighter before the night began.

Gwen plays with her ring (she has drawers full of them, of course, the shiniest in the land—but she wears only one) absentmindedly. Not sliding it on and off, but just twisting and rolling it between her fingers. Merlin’s dark eyes follow the movement.

“What a curse it is,” he says, voice soft and low and tired, “to love a Pendragon.”

Gwen sighs, inching a little closer to Merlin’s heat although she’s probably a little overheated at this rate. “I think there must be no greater sacrifice.”

Merlin hums like he’s far away again. He’s often far away, up with the midnight clouds or some other such dark or ‘magical’ places. Gwen doesn’t like it. And in Gwen’s experience, what a Queen doesn’t like she fixes.

Gwen pulls him to her in whatever sense she can, grabbing his hand and placing it on her chest where she proceeds to play with his fingers instead. She gets more eye contact and a small smile for her troubles.

“Stupid, gorgeous prats,” he mumbles, eyes immediately growing wide as if he couldn’t believe he’d said it out loud, but Gwen can only laugh. It’s a good laugh, too, with wine in her belly.

It takes her a little longer to get it than she’d care to admit. “Oh!” she says, and gives Merlin only a tiny shove. She pulls him right back. “It’s impossible sometimes how I forget I’m a Pendragon,” she admits.

“Really?” 

“Hmm. It was almost—it felt like it was us and them, you know? Me and you and then… them. But then it was the four of us together. And you and Arthur, and me and Morgana. And then, me and Arthur and—and you, of course, and—Gods, Merlin. To think of what we could have been.” 

“It’s impossible to forget how it would seem I’m the only one who is not.” Merlin says quietly, “A Pendragon, that is.” He says it good-humouredly enough, but Gwen takes the statement for what it is. She links their fingers together and gives his a squeeze. It seems to do the trick, snapping him out of a near revere; from a place he shouldn’t be nor should never need to go because he needs to stay right here with Gwen forever. Or any and every other place Gwen should happen to be.

“Perhaps you should count that as a blessing,” she says, but doesn’t mean it. Not totally.

Merlin turns to her and smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Gwen doesn’t like it when he does that, and Merlin well knows it but it would seem that she has to tell him again so she does. The ‘smile’ vanishes entirely, crumbles within tiny seconds. A large part of Gwen adores him for trying, but she won’t be having any more lies, thank you.

There’s a kind of hollowing sadness in his eyes that’s so thorough that Gwen supposes she’ll only ever be able to recognise it in herself and no one else. Perhaps it’s selfish to assume that their own losses are greater than anyone else’s but then again, Arthur was greater than most men.

(Plus, she is Queen, she’ll do as she likes.)

Gwen tucks into Merlin as closely as she possibly can, taking in his scent of sweat, pudding and everything she generally chooses to label under Potions. Luckily, tonight, the potions smell like strawberries and Gwen is pleased.

“He loved you,” she says, simply and almost without thought, because if there is any truth in anything in the world, Gwen is sure it is that. Destiny seems to think so too.

Merlin seems to startle a bit at that. He doesn’t move, only takes a couple of shaky breaths as though what Gwen said was some sort of a surprise to him.

But then—

Gwen always thought it was blatantly obvious, but then again, her boys had never necessarily been the brightest.

“Oh, darling,” she tries to keep her voice strong because all honesty to the Gods, Merlin is heartbreak in a smiley, all-powerful, skinny little nutshell. “Don’t be silly, now.”

“I know, I know,” he says, just as shakily as the shallow breaths he was taking, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve and with a suspicious sniffle that Gwen despises because there’s glorious heat, plenty of wine and there is Gwen so all sadness-- any tears shed over the stupid, gorgeous, prat Pendragons should cease and be nevermore. “I’m sorry.”

Gwen sighs, wills the tears from her eyes at the sheer sound of him. She decides to remedy that sound. She wants a laugh, instead. Or any other sound that comes from a smiling mouth.

She releases her hand from his and turns to lie on her belly (gods help Lily with her dress in the morning) so she can cradle her head in her arms and face Merlin’s lovely profile.

“Have you ever had him?” She asks rather bluntly (being a Queen has certainly helped with her tactlessness, but Gwen supposes she’ll never be rid of that particular trait. She doesn’t necessarily ever want rid of it, though.) Still, she wonders momentarily if she’d just said the absolute wrong thing, but she has always been curious, and delights at Merlin’s smile and blush, even if he covers it with his hands in a split second. Gwen thinks it a treasure in its purest form.

“Yes, yes, okay, yes!” he says eventually after some encouraging elbow nudges from Gwen and goes an even deeper scarlet.

Gwen wants to ask more. Ask if Arthur always kissed Merlin the way he kissed her, (soft and precious and slow) if it was the same way they fucked and loved. When, how long, how many times.

How did it end. When.

But there Gwen supposes lies more heartbreak and possible sad thoughts, so all she says is “Good” and leaves it at that.

Until Merlin asks, “Did you have her?” and the ‘her’ in question is obvious. She smiles. She doesn’t care. In Gwen’s own experiences, hate gets old and weary. Tends to die a little with death, too.

“Yes,” she says simply, smiling over fond memories. Over the Morgana that reminded her (still does) of spring and flowers and dancing by candlelight. (“Why did you leave so early?” “I didn’t want to give _them_ any more of my dances, I want to give them to you. I am the king’s ward, I get what I want.” “You mean you are _Morgana_ , you get what you want.”)

“Guinevere!” says Merlin, mock-scandalized, though he does look surprised until he seems to think on it. Gods bless them all, but her boys really aren't the quickest. “I suppose I should’ve guessed.”

“I don’t know, sweetheart, I think you were too busy mooning after those baby blues.”

Merlin’s spluttering is delightful. “I did _not_ moon!”

“It’s okay, pudding, it’s only me. If it makes you feel any better, said Baby Blues were always rather embarrassingly attached to the direction of your pretty mouth, so,” if Gwen sounds a bit smug than it doesn’t matter because she’s Queen and she’s having fun with the obliviousness of her silly boys. She’d find it a little sad if she thought about it overmuch, sure, but she doesn’t. Plus, it’s a little difficult to be sad over ridiculous things ( _like her boys. Whoops, who said that?_ )

Merlin groans, but curiosity (and insecurity, the silly man) must have gotten the better of him. 

“Really?” he asks tentatively.

She flips back around onto her back so she can link an arm through his, pulling him tight, feeling light. She doesn’t think it’s the wine, either, not entirely. She likes talking about Arthur. And Morgana. Not all the time, granted, but with Merlin it seems okay, depending on whether or not he seems less inclined to go off to what Gwen prefers to refer to as his 'magical' places (and nothing else, nothing worse) afterwards. Merlin’s been through a lot. So has Gwen. She’s learned to appreciate a brave yet (though not equally) fragile soul. Gwen is careful. It’s her job to keep Merlin together now, whether he likes to admit or not, and Gwen likes it that way. Gods help the lord or lady that tries to sweep Merlin off his feet. She already has a full interrogation planned, guards not included. She doesn’t need them. Gods, she wants her sword so badly.

“Of course, _really_ ,” she says eventually, snapping out of her thoughts at Merlin’s doubtful kitten expression. “Arthur can appreciate a beautiful thing when he sees it. Obviously.” That earns her a gloriously loud belly laugh. Even when he stops, his eyes are still crinkled. Merlin’s smiles are certainly one her most favourite things she’s ever conquered. “Pair that beauty,” Merlin winces, which is absurd so Gwen gives him a shove that says _you’re stunning, stop it_ , “with your backchat and you’re just about Arthur’s walking fantasy. Plus loyalty and bravery and all of those silly things.”

Merlin beams and Gwen thinks she’s the happiest she’s been for the past terrible months.

“So…” says Merlin after a short, comfortable silence, and sounding not at all like the next thing out of his mouth will be in any way an innocent nor a spontaneous thought. “…I assume Arthur was the better of the two?”

“And I will assume, Merlin, that you are gentlemen-ly enough to be referring to kissing affairs and nothing more?”

Merlin nods as seriously as one can nod. “Of course.”

“In that case,” says Gwen, tapping her chin for effect, but can’t help grinning cheekily as she tells him “you assumed wrong.”

Merlin’s shocked face is delightful. Gwen decides Merlin’s face in general is delightful. So is his spluttering.

“But—I mean—Morgana-- she was great, of course, but—“

Gwen slaps him repeatedly on the arm in a way that might look a tad unbecoming of a Queen but that Gwen decides is not, so it isn’t. “I knew it! By the Gods, I knew it! I just needed the confirmation, thank you.”

Merlin groans, but Gwen knows he loves her and that he doesn’t mean it. “I am never drinking again. Is this what happens when I drink?”

“This is what happens when you fall for my sweet, adoring face. It draws out any and all secrets. It’s a curse, really.”

“That it is.” This time Merlin snuggles into Gwen’s neck and Gwen starts petting him because it feels like the thing to do when Merlin’s being cute and affectionate.

“So, go on,” Gwen gives his head a pat. “Tell me why _Morgana was great, but…_ ”

“But Arthur.” Merlin answers so simply and honestly in a way that Gwen knows means he’s sleepy and maybe—just maybe-- a little bit happy. “Just… but Arthur.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Gwen can’t help her soft and gentle voice coming out because _for the sake of the Gods._ Gwen doesn’t suppose she’s ever prayed to the Gods so much in one night. It’s not like she needs them (Gwen, Merlin, Leon and Percival are indestructible) but still, how can two people be so tragic and ridiculous is beyond her and calls for higher help. 

(But to be totally honest, she thinks that might’ve applied to the four of them.)

“Don’t,” says Merlin, though not unkindly. When she peaks over at him he has his eyes closed. “I’m not sad. Don’t make it sad.”

“Okay. What was it, then?”

“It was… it was Arthur.” He lets out a quiet, sleepy chuckle. ”It was fast and hard and stubborn and intense and perfect and—“ he stops himself. “But I guess you already knew that.”

No, Gwen didn’t know that.

“What’s that around your neck?”

Merlin opens his eyes to turn and blink at her for a second before seeming to remember there’s anything around his neck at all. Then he untucks the string from his neckerchief to reveal something metal and what would be cold-looking if Merlin hadn’t obviously forgotten it was there for a moment; as though it rested against his chest night and day without fail.

The only light is that of the fire, which had dulled into the late (early?) hours, so Gwen couldn’t really make out the image ingrained into it, could only run her fingertips over the bumps and ridges. “What is it?” she asks tentatively. Merlin has never been the type to wear jewellery. Plus, it radiates the aura of something ‘important’.

He only looks at Gwen playing with it for awhile before answering quietly, so terribly quietly, as though the thing would crumble to dust otherwise, “It’s Arthur’s mother’s sigil.”

Gwen stills her fingers. Gwen had only been a couple of summers old when Queen Ygraine died. Merlin would have never known her as queen. Gwen hadn’t really, either. Although, growing up in Camelot she of course had heard every lovely and regal thing she possibly could about her and so her name always radiated like royalty did in Gwen’s mind. Merlin, though-- being the country boy that he truly is and coming to the kingdom of a king gradually hardened to the point where someone could so much as be thrown in the stocks at the mere mention of Her Majesty’s name—could have only really known her as Arthur’s mother. That's all it must mean to him.

“Where did you get it?” Gwen can’t help but ask.

“I didn’t—Arthur. He gave it to me.”

“Oh, _Merlin_ ,” Gwen’s tone might get a little high-pitched but she can’t help it. By Gods, how bloody _tragic--_

She drops the sigil onto Merlin’s chest and immediately wraps an arm around his chest, huddling close. “You know what? We should just love each other.”

“But I do!” Merlin pecks her on the nose and Gwen bats him away and pretends she doesn’t like it.

She really is sleepy now. The fire is dying and she dismissed poor Lily for the night a while ago, so she huddles in close to Merlin’s heat, Merlin throwing his legs over Gwen’s skirts and own legs in turn. Merlin is always warm, so she doesn’t complain. She wouldn’t have complained anyway.

“So our problem is that we all love too much,” she mumbles into his by-now dried neckerchief. She wishes it were skin, but is too lazy to do anything about it now.

“I suppose so.” Merlin strokes her hair this time. It’s nice.

Gwen vaguely imagines Lily’s reaction the moment she’ll find her in the morning --on the ground, fully dressed and cuddled into the Court Sorcerer—and chuckles internally, though she feels a little bad because she knows Lily will feel all uncomfortable to some extent. Gwen’s working on that. Someone once told Gwen that it is inevitable for servants to be rigid and uncomfortable around nobility, that that was what respect meant, but Gwen began serving Morgana when they were only girls and so she’d never quite understood nor believed that entirely. And of course, then there was Merlin. Gwen smiles to herself.

“Where’s the trouble in that?” She asks, eyes closed and drifting. Everything is okay. Merlin’s here and not far away, he is warm and everything is okay.

“Therein, my perfect Guinevere, lies every trouble.”

“Mmm. Still love you, though. Won’t change that for anything.”

She feels a quick kiss and warm breath on her forehead. The last thing she remembers is a quiet “Love you, too,” before a lovely nothingness.

*

They wake in a tangle of skirts and limbs. Her back is sore and Merlin snores a little. He also likes to snuggle while simultaneously attempting to conquer the entire area around him and Gwen decides it’s the best nights sleep she’s had in months.

“Merlin? I wish to train today. Won’t you be my companion?”

Gwen hears a mumbled something about “Prat Pendragons” and hardly stops smiling all day.


End file.
